by Rick Young | Jun 15, 2021 | Poem
Death will find me friendless and alone,
chewing on my conscience like a bone.
Those I tossed aside will wave to me,
all together, from a boat at sea.
While the dead ignore me, underground,
light will leak away without a sound.
Those who once walked with me on life’s path
will find nothing now except vague wrath.
Histories we shared in times uncertain
now appear a useless, tattered curtain.
Every pathway walked has disappeared,
shadows turned to darkness as I neared.
Soon I will be buried in the dirt,
probably amongst those I have hurt.
If only one could go back at the end
to smooth the surface or straighten the bend,
perhaps a life, in retrospect, could heal.
But that’s not in the cards. There’s no re-deal.
by Rick Young | Jun 15, 2021 | Poem
Oh, the work force down in Labor Town
went off to seek their fortune.
In mills and stills and mining hills,
the summer sun was scorchin.’
When hope ran dry, they turned their eye
back toward the place they’d left.
But the streets were dead and the lakes were dry,
the whole scene was bereft.
Labor Town had seen its day,
money piling up like hay.
Now the crop had gone away,
the buildings fit for arson.
Two men roamed the dusty street,
forlorn, hungry, in defeat.
Beneath a tree, they had a seat,
beggar man and parson.
When one leaves his place of birth,
pledged to roam the challenged earth,
there is one key step to take:
make sure it is no mistake.
Some roads lead to castle, palace,
others bordered, oft, by malice,
run downhill to fiery ends,
empty of both love and friends.
Labor Town once prompted toasts.
Now it’ home to angry ghosts.
Those who jettison their past
find a future that won’t last.
